in the realm of goldfish
by daffidil
Summary: in a world where most people resemble goldfish, Mycroft is trying his best to live his life... and then Anthea points something out to him...
1. checking out the goldfish

_*** author's note:** series three has left me rather puzzled about a lot of things, especially the way Mycroft Holmes and DI Lestrade appear to treat each other... time for a new approach... _

_in keeping with series three, so there might be spoilers... or not... still smitten with both guys, by the way... _

* * *

**In the realm of goldfish**

**1. **

Why did he have to deal with these people? Mycroft Holmes sighed as he saw yet another inept police officer sort out what could really be something quite simple. His brother had gone missing, checked himself out of hospital way too early, and surely even a trained monkey would be able to deduct where he ought to be…

He rubbed his face with both hands. The tension of the past few days – would Sherlock live? – had strained him more than he would ever admit. The way he'd been going on, behind Mycroft's back, was regular enough, even if the notion that he'd been courting a woman (_a woman!_) to get to where he wanted to get to (inside Charles Magnussen's office, as it turned out), was nominally peculiar, but really, in the circumstances (his best/only friend had gotten married and left him with too much time on his hands) it was less mad then, though similarly unconvincing to him as, the supposed drug-habit he suddenly re-developed alongside. Mycroft had had his suspicions about the authenticity of that one. But with Sherlock you really could never be certain.

Mycroft had passed on all the information that was in his own head, knowing there was only so much he could do in person, and hoped that the Detective Inspector that just left his office, and who was ogled profusely by _Anthea_, was going to be smart enough to figure it all out before it was too late. He wouldn't put it past him though to screw it up, as the man was just a little too eager to please, and Mycroft was finding himself getting rather annoyed by the way the DI seemed in awe of him. For the love of God… How did he get promoted in the first place? Surely there had been people senior to him before? People in power, whom he'd had to cross-examine, determine whether or not they spoke the truth? He'd seen this guy at work, at crime scenes with his brother in the mix, and he appeared capable enough, from what he remembered. Though the confidence and grace would disappear as quickly as snow in boiling water once the Detective was aware of his presence, and Mycroft was puzzled by it. In a rather peeved way…

"What did you make of this… Detective Inspector…" looking on the file on his desk, "Lestrade, then?" Mycroft asked _Anthea_, who was engrossed in something that was happening on her tablet.

"Cute, sir," she responded, not lifting her eyes off the screen.

"Cute? What kind of character study is that? Cute…? What about competent, or shrewd? I want him to bring Sherlock back alive, and all you are bothered by is whether this man is _cute_?" Mycroft pronounced that last word as if it was going to leave a nasty smell.

"Well, he is competent, and pretty sharp-witted, as he's proved on many occasions in the past, sir, but apart from that, he's also cute… Good-looking… Surely you must see that?" she glanced over the tablet to see what reaction that caused with her boss. She grinned at the confused face he pulled.

"He seems to act like a baboon whenever he's here… A shifty, inept half-wit and I'm trusting my brother's life with this man?"

"He's probably just nervous, sir. You can come across as quite imposing, sometimes, and maybe he feels intimidated by you," she offered.

"Poppycock… He's a Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard, surely he shouldn't be intimidated by anybody? Least of all me?"

"Well, I beg to differ, sir." _Anthea_ got up from her chair and moved towards the door, ready to take her lunch-break. "I have a feeling he might actually _Like_ you, sir."

Mycroft watched his PA leave the room and was left with her last remark lingering in the air. What the hell did she mean with that?! Why did she emphasise that word the way she did? How did he _Like_ him? How did she deduct that, for heaven's sake…

He placed his hands palms touching in front of his face and rested his head lightly on them. Could this be a foregone conclusion? Had _Anthea_ observed the man he'd stamped a baboon rightly? Was she sharper at noting this than he was, the man who prided himself in being shrewder than his Consultant Detective brother? What did she see that he didn't? Was this female intuition at work?

The next few days Mycroft spent immersed in the case of his brother's reappearance, Mary Morstan's rather dubious past unravelling, John Watson on the brink of another breakdown, and things ticking along nicely. The days went by wonderfully fast, and Mycroft balanced it all out by a crisis at the foreign Office that had him spend more time there then he did in his own house. He wondered sometimes what would happen if he decided to chuck it all in? Would England collapse, as Sherlock had mocked dramatically more than once? It probably wouldn't, surely there were more people out there capable of this job…

Surely…

Driving back to his place in Knightsbridge one evening, after Sherlock's case with the megalomaniac newspaper tycoon had simmered down slightly, Mycroft suddenly remembered the question from Sherlock, when they were talking about certain issues, just after his little brother's surprise resurrection. Mycroft had complained about how most people seemed like goldfish, and Sherlock asked if he'd found himself one yet… A goldfish… Mycroft had smirked, bluffing he didn't need one in his life to be happy, unlike most normal people. Tedious, mundane, dull people, living their humdrum lives. He wasn't like them, neither of them were, really… Somehow his parents, their parents, had lived a Normal life together, and Sherlock and himself had escaped the dance…

His key disappeared in the lock, and Mycroft turned it, like he had done for the past ten years. He closed the door behind himself, went to open the inner door. His coat was on his left arm, and his case in his hand, and he placed them both on the designated stand on the wall of the roomy hallway. Nobody greeted him, as Mrs Green, his housekeeper, had gone home for the night about four hours before, so in the usual silence he moved to the kitchen, to make himself a cup of tea. Or have the vintage Scotch he had been getting through these past few days. The last one seemed a better option, and he reached for a glass in the wooden cabinet next to the fridge. The glucking sound that pouring the drink made filled him with joy of anticipation, and carrying the glass with him to his sofa, he thought about the days that had just been. The days he'd love to be able to talk to someone about, he suddenly noticed, but he'd taught himself to forget that notion as quickly as it had popped up in his head. It wouldn't do any good, he told himself.

A goldfish… For goodness sake… Where did he come up with these notions? But really, when he thought about it, goldfish was precisely what most people resembled. Gawping goldfish, like the way that DI Lestrade would look at him while getting instructions. Gawping, awestruck, smitten … Jesus Christ…

Why had _Anthea_ put those thoughts in his head? They were back, with a vengeance, now that there was space, thoughts that gawping baboon DI Lestrade, who babbled and talked gibberish at him might have the _hots_ for him… She couldn't possibly be right?! That would be just what he needed, someone hankering for him. What could they possibly want from him? Apart from his wealth and power?

Baffled Mycroft got up and took himself off to his bedroom.

* * *

The night was going to last quite a bit longer, but Greg was awake, and had been for three hours now. Next to him Tanya, his wife, was snoring lightly. He shifted a bit, creating more space between himself and her, and moved his arms under his head, underneath his pillow, and allowed thoughts to drift along, because he knew that there was little point in trying to stop them. Thoughts of the job he'd been on that day, of how glad he was that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were around again to help him solve stuff, of the innate conversation he had with Tanya, how narked he still felt at the text he'd found earlier that came from a bloke called Colin. _Missing you already_ it said, with a little heart at the end… For fuck's sake… He really thought they'd gone past all that, but it seemed that Tanya wasn't able to keep her hands off this Colin-geezer now, and the therapy and counselling from last year had done nothing to change that. Although last year it was Mark. And the year before Terry… And each time he forgave her, cos he knew that he wasn't exactly a saint himself… He knew he's been harbouring feelings for someone else. Only he'd never acted on them. But was that an excuse?

More thoughts wandered along, this time of the crime scene of that day, with a body hanging out of a car. Male, young, posh. Killed by a bullet, shirt hanging open, fly undone. It bewildered him, to see this particular young man, as he looked exactly like a young colleague from another department, one he'd fancied rotten for months, until he got promoted to personal assistant at one of the ministries and disappeared from the scene. It shocked Greg to see what he thought was the same guy, and was immensely relieved to find out that it wasn't, that this was just a posh bloke from Sweden, here on a visit to his fiancé, cut rather short by a suspicious death.

Sleep overtook him in the end, and his alarm went off four and a half hours later. Groggy eyes saw the time on the dial of his clock and groaning he fell back onto the bed. Another day, another crime scene…

On his desk at Scotland Yard he found a note, folded in half, lying on top of the stack of files he'd left there the day before. He opened it to find the handwriting of the department's secretary, neatly stating that 'he needed to ring the mobile number underneath'. No name, no reason, just that. Greg placed it back on the desk, trapped under his pen-mug, wondering what to make of it. He'd do it later, he thought, and opened the file that was on top, ready to work out why the posh blonde was shot from such a close range.

It wasn't until almost the end of his working day that he remembered the note with the phone number on. He'd been in and out of the office all day, going to meetings and making an arrest, and when he sat down with a cup of tea, ready to write some stuff down, grabbing a pen out of his Chelsea FC mug with the handle missing, that he saw the piece of paper. It was already half past four, and the end of this working day was slowly in sight. Should he just ring the number, get it over with?

Greg grabbed the receiver of the phone on his desk, and pressed the keys corresponding with the numbers on the note, then hearing the tone denoting that something was happening on the other end. After about three tones, someone answered.

"_Yes?_" asked a woman's voice, slowly.

"This is Detective Inspector Lestrade from Scotl-" he started, before he was interrupted.

"_Ah, Mr Lestrade, we've been expecting you… Hang on a second_."

Greg frowned, then sunk back into his chair and waited for the next thing to happen.

"_DI Lestrade, finally I hear from you. I do not enjoy being made to wait like this, as you well know. Mycroft Holmes here. There's a matter I would like to discuss with you, as soon as is possible. Would in about an hour suit you?_"

Greg's confident demeanour vanished within seconds when he heard whom he had the pleasure to speak with, and his answer wasn't anywhere near as cool as he wished it had been.

"Um, er… I, er… was hoping to go home in a bit, it's been…"

"_What, and go back to your philandering wife?_" he heard the decidedly more self-assured voice of the man on the other side. "_I'm sure you can't wait to spend the evening with her…_"

"How do you…"

"_Never mind that… Go downstairs in precisely forty-five minutes, where my driver will meet you in the lobby, and we shall take it from there_."

"Okay…" was all Greg was able to answer before the connection was cut and he was left feeling increasingly baffled.

Had he just been summoned by Mycroft Holmes?!


	2. tea and biscuits

_a/n: thanx for all that follow this, for your patience... it took a while to find the right angle on this, and i hope you enjoy!_

* * *

**2. tea and biscuits**

Greg was told to sit down on the chair that was provided in the otherwise pretty empty office space, which only contained another chair, and a desk, with all its drawers opened up. He had no idea where he was, as the car he was picked up in had blinded windows, and it was already dark when he left, and besides: all offices look the same. A quick glance out the large window offered him a view over the city; it could as well be Manchester of Southampton, although the drive out here wasn't that long. Maybe he was just around the corner from Scotland Yard.

Apart from Greg there was a dark-haired woman, sitting on the window sill, staring at her Blackberry, not making any kind of attempt to make him feel at ease, and Greg had a quick look on his own phone, hoping there was a message from his wife, or even Sherlock to run through ideas on the case with the blonde Swede, but his screen was empty. Disappointed Greg put his phone away again, and carried on staring out of the window. The sky was getting darker, and lights were on over the town, giving it a pretty touch. He smiled, for a moment. Although the crime-rate and constant hectic nature of London drove him mad sometimes, he was happy to call it his town most of the time.

He heard a door open, and turned around to see Mycroft Holmes enter. This was apparently a cue for the dark-haired woman to leave.

"I'll take it from here, Anthea," Mycroft hummed. He also smiled, but it wasn't a warm smile, more a stick-on smile, to _imply_ friendliness rather than exude it. Greg had become familiar with it over the years. "Mr Lestrade, you've made it…"

"Your driver has. I'm just here for the ride," Greg answered. He swore to himself to not be the quivering flower he had found himself turn into whenever the elder Holmes was near him, something for which he felt increasingly embarrassed, not to say hacked off, but this man had precisely that effect on him. Every time, so far, he was told to come to his office, Greg changed from a man in charge of his department of Scotland Yard to a weedy schoolboy who was told off by the headmaster, and he hated it… He hated Mycroft bloody bastard Holmes for having that effect on him.

"So you are, it seems." Another pretend smile.

"What do you want me here for, Holmes? Is there something…"

"Oh, we're getting a little forceful there, Mr Lestrade…" piercing eyes met Greg's, and his bravado was out the window again.

"Sorry…'

"No, don't stop… I like it… I like it a lot more than the pitiable Detective Inspector that I kept having to deal with over the years… Carry on, please…"

Greg recognised the mocking way Mycroft gazed at him, that upturned corner of him mouth, the eyes that glistened. He resembled his brother so much there… He was having fun with him… Taking the piss… Great…

He'd never really liked the elder Holmes. The few times he had to deal with him were excruciating, and he was glad there were only a handful of cases that required Greg to be in his presence. And it appeared that the feeling was mutual, going by the way Mycroft Holmes tolerated his presence in his office. He hadn't been talked to the way he did since grammar school, by toffee-nosed head-boys and their mates, and god he was glad when he could leave it all behind. None of 'm were capable however to make him feel this much on edge, and he wasn't very happy about it. Only, there was nothing he could think of doing that would make it stop.

"Why do you need me here?" Greg went on, wishing to go home sooner rather than later. He saw Mycroft wander along to the windowsill.

"I need you here, cos I would like to get to know you a bit better, Detective Inspector," Mycroft hummed, parking his behind on the ledge along the window. "I feel that although I have had dealings with you over the years, since you took my brother under your wings, I've never really gotten to know you at all. And I think that that should change…"

"You could've just read my files," Greg said, carefully not looking at the other man in the room. "Or asked me out for dinner…" he added quietly.

That smile again. "Now, there's an interesting idea… Only, I think that would send out the wrong signals, wouldn't you agree?"

"I don't think anybody gives a fig, Mr Holmes." Greg glared at Mycroft and got up from the chair. He walked a few paces, to stop Mycroft from feeling he had the upper hand entirely. "What do you want to know about me? What my favourite colour is? What my cuddly toy was called when I was little? Why I'm a cop?"

"That would be a start… But I can find all of that in your files, and I already know that your cuddly toy was a mauve elephant called Francis. Which I thought was quite touching…"

"How the fuck do you know that?!"

"The way I know everything about everybody, Mr Lestrade… By looking for it… A bit like you do your job, only the information that I find isn't immediately necessary."

Greg looked into eyes that revealed nothing, and wandered along the space in the office, wishing he'd have the guts to just make a run for it. Then he noticed a tray, which had a few items on it.

"There's a tray with stuff on it, do you know about this?" Greg asked his interrogator.

"Sorry?" he heard Mycroft ask, confused. "A tray? No."

He got off the window ledge and wandered over to where Greg was standing, near the door. There was indeed a tray, with on it a thermos flask, two mugs, a packet of biscuits and a note. Greg picked it up and read it through. He then threw his head back in anger and exclaimed: "Fuck!"

"What does it say?" Mycroft asked with trepidation. He'd never seen the DI this riled, and he was a little unsure what to make of it. He read the note that Greg passed to him, and sniggered. "Anthea…"

"Anthea? Who's that?"

"My PA, the women that was in the car with you? In this room? Remember her?"

"Course I remember her… Bit full of herself… What 'business' have we got to deal with? Who does she think she is to lock us into this room? Have you set this up?"

"No I haven't, Mr Lestrade. I'm as confused as you are, believe me."

Mycroft tried to open the door, but felt it wouldn't budge. Anthea must have locked it when she sneaked the tray in and left. Goodness knew where she was now.

"It looks like we've been set up, Mr Lestrade… My PA has pulled a little prank on us, for some reason…" Mycroft felt very uncomfortable, not being completely in charge.

"Really? You can't think of a reason why your trusty PA locked us in a room together? Maybe she wants to see who'll get killed first." Discomfort sounded clearly from Greg's voice. "She has no right to do this, Mr Holmes. No right…"

"No she hasn't but we're here now, so we might as well make ourselves comfortable…" Mycroft bent down to pick up the tray and carry it over to the desk. "Tea?"

"How do you even know what's in there?"

"I don't, I'm just guessing…" Mycroft smirked, thinking up ways to stop this situation being as awkward as it was. He opened the flask and looked inside. "Tea?" he asked again.

"No thanks."

"Well, I'm having some. And I'm having a biscuit."

"You do that," Greg was looking out of the window again, wondering where in London they could be. He didn't see any points of recognition, then remembered that his phone had GPS on it, and switched it on, hoping that it would be precise enough. Maybe he could send some colleagues out to come and rescue him.

"You'll find that GPS has been disabled in this building, Mr Lestrade… Little precaution on my part. Seemed a good idea, a few hours ago."

Greg closed his eyes and sighed slowly.

"What business was your PA referring to, Mr Holmes? Maybe we can just get this dealt with and then you can call her to say we're done…" he spoke.

"As I said, Mr Lestrade, I have no idea…"

"Greg…"

"Sorry?"

"My name is Greg… I'm sick of you calling me _Mr Lestrade_ with that condescending undertone…"

"I didn't mean to…" Mycroft looked at the man in the other chair with some bafflement – he was nothing like he remembered, nothing like the cautious, nervous chap that normally stands before him. "Greg…"

"I don't believe you."

"I understand. But I…"

"Why are we here?!"

"She thinks that you like me…"

"She? This Anthea woman?"

Mycroft nodded, suddenly not so sure of himself.

Greg burst out laughing. "I like you? What the fuck made her think that?"

"I don't know… She thought that… Because you were…" Mycroft scrambled for words that made some sense, but nothing much appeared to him, nothing that would stop Greg laugh anyway.

"Because I'm nervous when I'm in your office? That would mean I _like_ you?" Greg looked at Mycroft with eyes that convinced him suddenly of his capacity as a Detective Inspector. "You scare the fuck out of me, Mycroft Holmes… That's why I'm nervous… You remind me of every arrogant, stuck-up twat that has made my life a misery over the years, every well-to-do bastard that made me feel this small, reminding me of why they have power and I don't… You can take my job away, just because you have a bad day, and I know there's nothing I can do about it… I don't like you, Mr Holmes, _Mycroft_… I despise you. In much the same way that you despise me, I think…"

Greg got up and picked up the flask off the desk. With trembling hands he filled the second mug with tea, and picked a biscuit out of the packet. He walked up to the window again.

"You have no idea, do you?" Mycroft heard. He knew he didn't. His life had been one of privilege, of chances, and doors opening that were left closed for most others. But he also knew that it hadn't always been a walk in the park for him either. Expectation had made a prisoner of him too. There may have been more chances, more possible, but that would normally come at a price – his freedom. He somehow gathered that Greg wouldn't be impressed with that.

"Well, I'm sorry about that…" Mycroft took a sip from his tea. Then something struck him. "But why do I bring that out in you, and not say, your superiors at Scotland Yard? Or people you have to interrogate who are way more powerful than you are, Mr… Greg…? People that can easily take your job off you, as you say I can?"

He watched as Greg lifted his shoulders briefly, as a way of saying 'I don't know'.

Both men carried on in silence for quite a while. Greg sipped his tea, and Mycroft eat his biscuit. The city looked very colourful, with the many lights on. Greg thought about Tanya, who probably wouldn't even miss him.

"My wife is probably not even home…" he mumbled. "Off out with her lover." He turned to check out the other man. "Anybody miss you, Mr Holmes?"

"Mycroft, please…" he blew some air out of his mouth, and shook his head. "Nope."

"Sad lot we are, aren't we?" Greg sniggered.

"Speak for yourself, Greg. I'm quite happy with my life, thanks."

"What, you never miss having someone to come home to? Someone to share your day with, or who will just take your mind off the crap that's happened? For all my marriage is not, that at least is something I'll miss when…"

"When what…? You split up?" Mycroft asked just a little too hopeful, wondering where that came from.

"Well, that's where we're headed for. There's only so much therapy can achieve…" Greg smiled a bit forlorn. The truth spoken out loud like this wasn't very nice.

"Suppose that's why I've been quite happy to let relationships pass me by. All that heartache, all that hurt – I can do without that quite happily…"

"All that exposing your vulnerable side…"

"Well, yeah… What's the point of that? Is it making you feel any happier?"

"It goes with the territory, Mycroft… No Pain No Gain…" Greg smiled.

"No thanks," Mycroft smiled back, more genuinely than he had done so far, and was surprised to hear Greg laugh. A hearty, full on, pleasant laugh. Mycroft looked up and was amazed at the sight before him: Greg was relaxed, suddenly, and the atmosphere in the room felt a lot less tense, as if a window had been opened and let a heap of butterflies in. What had he said?

"You have a point." Greg went on after a while. "Maybe I should take your approach in the future. Not let myself get hurt."

"Maybe," Mycroft spoke with less authority than he had done, "Or maybe I should try your tactics. Maybe it's time to expose my vulnerable side…" His voice was almost inaudible, and Greg was somewhat non-plussed. He watched warily as the elder Holmes got up from his chair and approached him with as much confidence as a mouse would a cat, and nothing could've prepared him for what came next.

Mycroft came nearer, and reached out his hand to touch his, taking it, and putting another on top. Greg felt himself stiffen up, getting as tense and nervous as he would've, but there was a difference. A big difference – Mycroft Holmes smiled, and appeared for all he knew unguarded, exposed, and that was such a massive change in the way they operated together, that it left him feeling rather startled. The words that followed took ages to actually reach his brain.

"Greg Lestrade, I think I'm… I feel… I'm feeling very… drawn to you…"


	3. fishing for gold

_a/n: last episode, and a slightly darker one... nothing too gothic, just a side of one of the characters that i felt like exploring..._

_* thanx to all who read & reviewed this!_

* * *

**3. fishing for gold**

Greg had honestly not meant to spit tea at Mycroft, but he just couldn't help it.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't… It just…" he attempted to save his skin, and the look on the other man's face made him feel almost wretched. "This was the last thing I'd expect you to say to me."

"Clearly," Mycroft answered with a weak smile, while vigorously wiping his suit with a handkerchief he just found in his jacket pocket. "This puts paid to me being so callous and inappropriate with you, I suppose…"

"I'm touched, if that means anything."

"Thank you, Greg – can I please call you Gregory? It feels more appropriate for you somehow."

"If you want to sound like my mum, yeah, go right ahead," Greg sniggered.

"I shall take that chance then. As I said: thanks, but I don't need you to patronise me… You haven't been the first…"

"I wasn't patronising you. Well, not intentionally. I was touched, it just threw me by surprise that's all." Finding a tissue in his trouser pocket, he moved towards Mycroft. "Here, let me help you…"

Greg stepped forward to wipe some off the excess tea off one of the lapels of Mycroft's jacket, and gradually slowed down. With slight wariness he looked up and caught the man's eyes, then down to his lips, smiled and planted a kiss on Mycroft's startled mouth. A kiss that was casual to start with, but developed into something a lot more fervent, as both men grew more confident in their actions. Their hands stayed put, only touching each other's arms, resting there as if for support. Greg felt his breath speed up dramatically, comparable to that of his companion, and noted the erotic sounds that their mouths made while caressing, and he figured that this would get a heck of a lot more intense than he wanted right now if he didn't stop this. Only, stopping was so much harder that he reckoned. Each time he pulled away, Mycroft would move with him, and really, he was enjoying it so much more than he'd ever imagined.

Mycroft must've decided that this was enough for now, cos suddenly his lips felt cold and abandoned, and he was still breathing as if he'd just run a mile for the bus, and he felt rather flustered, and he grinned like an idiot.

"Okay…" he heard a few moments later. "What was that for?"

Greg felt speechless, stood there with his hands on his hips, pulled up his shoulders briefly to illustrate he had no idea, waved an arm as if he was explaining something, then ran a hand though his hair and left it lying in his neck. "I think I just wanted to know what it felt like to kiss you, what I would feel…"

"You were curious? So you just thought you'd go in for a searing kiss?" Mycroft sat down on one of the chairs.

Greg wandered over to the tea flask and poured himself another cup, realising that there would only be a bit left if he did. He offered the left-overs to Mycroft, who shook his head, still donning a rather perplexed look.

"Let's just say that _you_ weren't exactly the first for _me_…" Greg said.

"Ah…"

"Was that not in your files?"

"Haven't come across it thus far…" Mycroft looked at Greg, trying to fathom out why he'd never seen this side to him. "Obviously not as thorough as I thought I was."

"You didn't know?!" Greg sounded bewildered. "I thought you knew everything about everybody!"

"I'm not MI5, Gregory…" Mycroft smiled. "And you're not a potential terrorist threat…"

"Not a _terrorist_ threat, no…"

"And you were probably quite discreet about your… actions… in that area…"

"Maybe… Never had a boyfriend, just a few spur of the moment things… You know, when I was at college. All the posh guys wanted me… Loved a bit of rough…"

"You're not rough…"

"To them I was… Common, you know… Probably why you go for me too." Greg looked at Mycroft as if he was interrogating him, and noticed him flinch a little. "Told you…"

Mycroft felt himself blush, which he hated. He couldn't have his demeanour escape him like that. It wouldn't do. Then he imagined Greg as a younger man, at the college he went to, dressed in sports gear, and honest to god he should stop that right now, or else…

"Would you like to have me?" Greg probed, slightly aggressively. He felt he had the upper hand for the first time.

"What do you mean?"

"Would you like to _have_ me? Is that what this is about? Do you want me as your bit of rough?"

"No!"

"You sure? I'm sure you've been dying to get your hand up my-"

"Gregory, stop that!" Mycroft stood up and did his best to look imposing, but his usual composure was nowhere to be found. It threw him badly. The whole change of atmosphere did. "Gregory, I beg you… Don't do this…"

"Don't do what? Offer myself to you? Surely that's what you'd love? Own me, or do you want to chase after me? Have me be a bit of a challenge for you? Put up a fight?"

"Gregory!"

"What, am I spoiling your little drama for you? Did you have a different ending in mind?" Greg was getting rather irate by now, breath speeding up again. "Cos you can screw me right now if you want to… Get it over with…" and he went to move his hands towards his trouser button.

"What's gotten into you?" Mycroft voice was shaking now, both with distress as well as concern. He wished to touch Gregory, not to screw him, but to comfort. Only that would probably make it even worse. He saw angry eyes stare back at him, and he kept staring back, not losing contact. "I don't want to screw you, Gregory… Honestly…" he whispered.

"You all do," the out of breath voice of the other man spoke quietly. "One way or another…"

Greg seemed to calm down a little, and sank to the floor against the radiator underneath the window. Mycroft went to sit down next to him, waiting for Greg's breath to sound relaxed again. This took a while, and when he looked sideways he saw Greg sit there with his hands over his eyes, as if to shut the world out. He also cried. Very quietly.

"What's this really all about?" Mycroft asked, after many minutes.

"It doesn't concern you," Greg whispered.

"It does now. Please tell me, Gregory. Maybe I can help…"

"You?!" Greg looked up from his position under his hands for a second and smirked. "Help?"

"If you'll let me…"

"Why would I let a tosser like you help _me_?"

"Cos I like you?"

Greg glanced sideways again, and laughed out loud. "You? Get the fuck out of here, Mycroft Holmes… You can't stand me… Never could… I remember the way you've treated me over the years… You and your _cronies_… Spare me your pathetic bollocks…"

"If you put it that way…" Mycroft nodded, as if he was seriously contemplating the notion, which in turn made Greg smile again. "And how about you let go of that chip on your shoulder…"

"Maybe…" Greg smiled, carefully.

"Is it to so with those posh guys at your college?"

Greg sighed, looking ahead of him, avoiding Mycroft's caring glance.

"Nah, they were fine… And I knew what I was doing… It was just this one guy, Edward, he was one year ahead, and I fancied him rotten. Only he never looked at me once, the bastard. Well, he did, in his last year, and we spent a night together. Wonderful that was… He was kind and funny, and so gentle. I think I fell in love with him, only I also had a girlfriend at the time, and I was worried she'd find out. So I lived a double life for a few months, and then he went off to Oxford, and I didn't see him again… And I didn't go with another guy again for a very long time…" Another sigh, and he dared look at the man next to him, smiling. "And then I saw him, ten years later, when I was a Sergeant here in London and he was something high up in Scotland Yard, and I swear I felt terrified… I kept having to deal with him, and each time he'd wink at me, or make some remark about shirt-lifters and the like, and I wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up, bloody bastard, but I couldn't cos he was so much higher in rank than I was, and he'd have me fired from the squad, or whatever, on grounds of being a queer, and then it would be his word against mine…"

"And you'd never win that, and that's why…"

"That's why I don't tend to trust you lot…"

"Get it..."

"Do you?"

"Think so… I understand your trepidations, and your anger. It's not always been easy for me, you know… Knowing I couldn't hide who I am… They're not exactly an enlightened lot in the Home Office…" Mycroft grinned.

"Oh…"

Mycroft put his hand on top of Greg's which was resting on his knee. He felt a slight move, as if Greg was going to pull away, but that stopped. Instead his fingers parted a little, so that Mycroft could move his amongst them, and they sat that way for a little while.

Until there was a knock on the door.

* * *

The sheet felt a little clammy on Greg's skin, as he moved to lay his arm under his head. Hours he'd been awake, only worry was not the reason that had kept him in that state. A brilliant shag was, followed by another, and he was feeling shattered now.

When Anthea had finally released them from their confinement, making sure that both men were unharmed, they had gone for a meal in a nearby restaurant. They were indeed fairly close to the Yard, but Greg wasn't familiar with the part of London they were in, and Mycroft had to explain to him that they had been looking out over Brixton, which dumbfounded Greg a little. He knew that part of the town well, he'd thought… He wasn't too bothered, though, and enjoyed the meal with his new chum, feeling rather a lot more familiar and at ease in his company by then. They laughed easily, and found they had plenty in common, which genuinely surprised both.

Mycroft had told Greg about the comparison of most people to goldfish he'd made to Sherlock, and how much he was determined not to have his life complicated by love, in any way, shape or form, until Anthea let slip what she'd had, and this made Mycroft look at the Detective Inspector with entirely different eyes. Greg had snorted at this bit of information, and made some very rude suggestions with his mouth shaped as that of a goldfish.

The drive back to Mycroft's place was long enough to make the kiss they shared on the back seat become rather frenzied. They all but ran into the house, tore off their clothes, Mycroft checking with half an eye to make sure that his housekeeper wasn't in, and they just about made it to his bed before both men were ready to release, their age being a slight advantage in that sense.

Greg looked sideways, and smiled at the snoring man on his arm. Suppose he'd best get his solicitor onto the divorce he'd been thinking about for so long now. Carry on his new life with Mycroft as a free agent.

"Go to sleep," Mycroft croaked, peering at his companion with half an eye.

"I will, just thinking about some stuff," Greg answered.

"Like what?"

"Goldfish stuff… Divorce, moving out of my house, nothing for you to worry about…"

Mycroft grinned and moved over to kiss Greg slowly on the lips.

"Gregory, you're not a goldfish, you're just gold…"

"And you're just fishing for trouble, Mycroft Holmes…" Greg sniggered, while pulling a gawping fish face…

"Ow… There's a few things I can think of doing with that mouth…" Mycroft purred, eyebrows moving up and down. He moved in for another kiss and kept Greg awake for quite a while afterwards.


End file.
